Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
by Melody Garnet
Summary: An unknown young man has been captured spying on a crime lord and has been handed over to a master interrogator who lives a continent over. No-one comes to his rescue. The doctor who patches him up takes pity on him. Ten days after the lad arrived, a new guard turns up at the doctor's cell door, demanding to see him.
1. Chapter 1: introduction

**Quis custodiet ipsos custodies**

_An unknown young man has been captured spying on a crime lord and has been handed over to a master interrogator who lives a continent over. No-one comes to his rescue. The doctor who patches him up takes pity on him. _

_Ten days after the lad arrived, a new guard turns up at the doctor's cell door, demanding to see him._

**Chapter 1: An introduction**

'Poor lad', James Thorne sighed, as he played with a kid's broken glasses. The unknown man's effects were stalled out on his bunk before him. He'd been brought into the secret complex some eight days ago, handed over to his boss as a token of friendship of one crime lord to another. From what Thorne had heard, apparently he'd been caught spying on the other lord, tortured a bit until they'd figured out the lad wasn't talking.

Even the toughest nut could be cracked by Thorne's boss and his men, who all enjoyed breaking people down far too much. No-one but the worst and most devious scum of the world knew about what he did, calling in favours or simply paying him to get this or that person to talk. His services were among the most despised you could think of.

Among them, James recalled bitterly, giving his doctor a taste of his work and then threatening the man's loved ones with even worse to ensure their compliance in keeping the boss's victims alive long enough.

Thorne dropped the glasses and raked his hands through his hair despairingly. He'd seen the lad, because he'd had to patch him up as best he could between "sessions". He looked far too young, and far too much like his own son. He wished he could help him, he really did. He wished it for all of them, of course, but now more than ever.

He'd had far too many nightmares seeing his son on that table as it is. He prayed fervently again: 'If I only I could _help_ him!'

'Take you up on that', a tiny voice sounded from below. With bugged eyes, James looked down at the glasses in his lap. It had spoken. The _glasses_ had spoken. Had he gone mad at last?

Carefully, he picked them up and looked at them. He noticed suddenly that the glass wasn't corrective- how strange. He put the glasses on and jumped when he heard a voice by his ear.

'Hello' a voice said with a Scottish brogue, 'Nice to meet you. Who are you?'

'Nice to meet you, too?' he answered hesitantly, 'I'm –ah- I'm James Thorne. Who're you?'

'Emrys.'

'Ah.' There was a short silence in which James thought for a moment. 'Does this gadget thing mean that kid in there is a spy after all? Because that- that would explain a lot, actually.'

'It does. You also seem oddly unfazed about that', the voice questioned.

If you'd worked in his business as long as he had, you tended to need a certain amount of unflappability to survive, Thorne mused. The Scotsman agreed.

'So: the boy.', Thorne picked up the conversation after the contemplative silence. 'I gather you're trying to get him out?'

Turns out he did. Apparently Emrys could still see and hear what the glasses recorded, but the tracking system had been broken when the boy had been captured, so the Scotsman couldn't for the life of him pin down where the glasses were. 'It somewhat impedes the rescue I had planned', Emrys drawled, 'but if you could give what information you dare to give, that would help.'

Thorne thought about that a bit. He wanted to help the boy as much as he could. But he was incredibly aware of what his boss and his interrogators were capable of—he'd patched the men's victims up session after session, and had had to store them in the complex's morgue when the men had finished with them. He wasn't ashamed to admit he was terrified of it happening to him or his family.

If he helped Emrys and his boy, there would have to be something in return: the safety of those he loved, and his own safety too if possible.

'Deal', the voice said readily. 'Now, tell me everything you know.'

"Everything he knew" wasn't enough.


	2. Chapter 2: goodbyes

**Chapter 2: Goodbyes**

The boy barely looked up when Thorne came into the interrogation room. The guards kept their guns trained on him as he was tugged from the table to the gurney and escorted him out of the room and into the small OR.

They laughed at him as he ushered them out, calling out insults out of habit about his softheartedness and ridiculous demand for privacy. It had been the same routine since he arrived here a couple years ago.

His known belief – having a caring heart in a cruel place is not a weakness, but a strength- was crumbling by the day and mocked at every time, but he tried to stay strong. It was one of the few things he had left.

Emrys had told him the boy believed the same when he told the Scotsman about his life. Apparently, they both had a weakness for animals. It made James want to save him more. Soft hearts had to be protected.

The door closed behind the guards. James became Doctor Thorne again as he turned on the lights and set to work on the man strapped to the gurney. He stitched what he could, laid cold compresses where it probably hurt the worst, and administered as many painkillers as he dared.

'Do you think', the boy coughed after about a quarter of a minute, 'I'll ever play the piano again, doc?' God, but he was a strong soul. Brave heart, him. Kept making the same joke, even his state. Too much like his own son, too much, too much.

He even made the effort to not betray his origin by talking his accent, James could tell. He spoke on the posh side of BBC English.

James looked at the door. He knew for a fact they were soundproof. On top of that, his boss trusted his methods of persuasion enough to not have camera surveillance installed anywhere that was not the interrogation rooms or the corridors. No need to expect betrayal when you could torture your employees into submission.

He turned back to the young man: 'My boy, I've been reliably informed by a little bird that you don't play the piano.' Then he took the glasses out of his bag.

His eyes grew big and confused. 'Wha- Why are you waving my glasses around? I don't know what you're on about.'

If James hadn't known for sure that he did, in fact, what he was on about, he would have believed him. The kid was _good_. No wonder they hadn't cracked him yet.

'Emrys told me you might be like that. Here, I'll just give him and let him talk to you himself.' He gently set the broken glasses on top of the kid's reset nose. The boy convincingly kept looking at him as if he were mad right up until understanding shone in his eyes and the biggest smile suddenly burst through.

He looked so much younger like that, like he should be in college right now, having fun with mates, playing pranks, partying. God. Too young. Thorne choked. What kind of monster was he working for that he would hurt a kid like this one?!

James had survived this shit by keeping in mind the people interrogated were all criminals of one sort of another- but this, this _child_? God no. He might be a spy, but then one fighting the good fight. He was sure of it.

The boy started murmuring relievedly to his friend through the glasses. He turned around to give the some privacy and looked at his instruments. He still wasn't finished with the boy's patching up. He'd get right on that as soon as the talk was done. He prepared an injection that would give the boy some much-needed rest. It was the best he could give him. Well, that and a friendly voice.

The talk petered out. He turned back around. The boy was staring straight at the ceiling, but James could still see the sadness, the pain, the sheer tiredness in his eyes. He knew, then. No way to get out.

Not even the supervisor knew where the complex was. Somewhere in South- America, but that was about it. Thorne was allowed some time off to visit his son and his ex-wife, most school holidays actually, but he was sedated from the moment his suitcase was packed to the moment the plane touched down at Heathrow.

No way to find out through the accents of his co-workers, either, because they were from all over the world. The cook living in the cell next to him came from Beijing. The boy's interrogators were Dutch and Texan. None of them knew where they were, nor what their boss's face was.

There was just no way for the boy's fellows to come fetch and possibly save him, or any of the forced workers (which included all but the interrogators themselves, and even they didn't start out completely willingly).

No way to save the boy, and still Thorne would risk a lot just to give him what comfort he was able to offer. Too much like his son, and also far too young and innocent. James remembered what Emrys had said about his love for animals and soft heart. He could just imagine him playing with puppies and kittens, see him reading bedtime tales to little children. The kid shouldn't be here, he shouldn't-.

But he was. He was here and he was hurt, and James should help him.

'Hey' he said softly. The boy looked at him. He softly made a gesture to his operation intruments. The boy nodded, set his jaw and looked at the ceiling again. By the time Thorne was done treating him, the boy' eyes were glistening- though not with pain, but with defeat.

James felt the urge to comfort him, and so he laid a soft hand on the boy's head. He ruffled his hair gently and cupped his face.

'I'm sorry', he whispered.

The boy started crying then, silently. James hurried to wipe away the tears, pet his shoulders where they weren't bruised, and he started to sing a lullaby. His voice broke multiple times but he kept singing. Whatever comfort he could give, James thought, _whatever_ comfort.

When the boy had calmed down, he offered him an injection he had never in his life prepared before. The boy looked at him- green eyes hazy with pain and red with tears- for a long time, sizing him up. James did his best to not look away, to stand fast, to show how certain he was about this.

James could hear Emrys raging through the speakers of the glasses, but that quieted quickly until Scotsman cursed so loudly he could make out the words "_Dammit_, Eggsy!".

'That's his name, then?', he thought, 'Eggsy?' Somehow it suits him, a name that sounds so young and yet so rough. A nickname, perhaps. Maybe even a spyname.

James tried out the name: 'Eggsy?'

The boy- no, Eggsy- furrowed his brow a bit and then closed his eyes. He nodded. 'I'll take it', he said. 'But not like this. Take the glasses.'

James took the glasses and put them on himself. 'Emrys, you recording?', Eggsy asked.

'Yes', the man whispered in James' ear. James nodded, then said yes when he realized the boy couldn't see it with his eyes closed.

'Make sure my mum and the little flower can't see it, only hear it, okay?', he demanded.

He paused, looking for words. Eggsy scoffed, his accent slipping in here and there: 'Look at me! Always proud of me words and now I can't for the life of me find the words to tell ya how much I love you. And I do, mum, I do love ye! And our flower, too! Beau'iful, she'll be! And smar' as a fox. I love her. Tell her I love her, mum, tell her as much as you can.'

'I'm sorry I won't be there for ye. I wish I could see her grow, I wish I could see ye become so much happier away from that fucker D. But I can't and I'm sorry. I never wished for this. It shouldn't have happened. You already lost da to this, mum and now- I'm sorry, so sorry, I- .'

He sighed shakily.

'Em, I'm sorry you have to see this. But I love you, bruv, you know that. You were the guv'nor, you were. So's my Petra. She's the bomb, and I'm sorry I won't be there to see her kick ass anymore. I'm sorry if I made her cry. You watch out for her, Em, don't let 'er go. Take care of me mum and flower, Em, don't abandon them as they did when-. You know when.'

'And tell him- tell him I'm sorry I won't come visiting again. Buy him roses for me, a red one and a thornless one and maybe dark crimson and always, always a tea rose, and daffodils, pink carnations, and magnolia's. It's what I usually bring him. Add a purple hyacinth, now, too.'

James heard Emrys sob through the glasses' speaker, as if he understood perfectly what the boy was saying.

'I guess that's it' Eggsy said, 'I'm sorry I let all of ye down. Take care. I love you. Goodbye.'

There was a pregnant pause. James uncurled his white-knuckled grip from the gurney's handles and noticed his hands were shaking through tear-filled eyes. Emrys was trying to get his breath back under control and murmured that that was the end of the recording, which he repeated.

Eggsy opened his eyes, and looked at James. When he spoke again, he was back to his clean English, and there was determination in his eyes now.

'Now how are we going to pull this off without you being suspected?'

* * *

**"Buy him roses for me, a red one and a thornless one and maybe dark crimson and always, always a tea rose, and daffodils, pink carnations, and magnolia's. It's what I usually bring him. Add a purple hyacinth, now, too"**

So it's a tiny headcanon of mine that Eggsy knows flower language, what with the gentleman education and My Fair Lady. So of course, having been unable to tell Harry his feelings, he lays bouquets at his grave stone every time he visits.

Red rose: love, respect

Thornless rose: love at first sight

Dark crimson rose: mourning, grief

Tea rose: I'll remember, always

Daffodil: unrequited love, you're the only one, the sun shines when I'm with you

Pink carnations: I'll never forget you

Magnolia: nobility

Purple hyacinth: regret, I'm sorry

So: love love love, grief at his death, respect for his noble character, i'll never forget you and now: i'm sorry for everything that went wrong


	3. Chapter 3: an emergency

**Chapter 2-2: Emergency**

He was awakened that night by guards banging on his cell door, yelling in a panic.

'Yes, yes, I'm awake and decent!', James said hastily. The door swung open and the youngest of the guards, Benjamin, immediately started dragging him to the OR.

The New York boy explained on the way. 'The new guy, he tried to escape. Electrocuted his beasts, knocked out guards who're in his way. Eight of the troops. None of us killed, but all the beasts bought the farm. Marya's close, though, so' s Abayoni.'

'How about the new gu-', James stopped talking as they passed a blocked corridor. He could see blood splatters and bullet holes on the walls, but not a lot of them. When he looked into the cell closest to him – the one where he knew Eggsy was usually tortured- he gasped. An arm of one of the interrogators peeked from under one of the tree body-blankets, red-blistered palm facing upwards and dripping water still.

Three corridors from the OR, he saw the naked body of a heavily wounded young man, slumping against the wall where he'd fallen. There was no movement, no breath, no blood flowing from any of his wounds. The body was pale and lifeless. Eggsy was obviously dead.

Thank god James hadn't put on the glasses. He wouldn't have wanted the boy's friends to see him like this, naked and undignified. He spared a moment of grief for the boy, shoving aside the horrifying image of his son lying there instead. He had enough nightmares already, he thought to himself.

'He got this far?', James asked. There was no need to keep from sounding impressed and sad. Among the forced workers, there was a consensus that the interrogators were complete, utter bastards (called "the beasts" behind their back, they were hated by everyone but the boss and themselves) and that anyone who could stand against them deserved their respect. None of them liked what they had to do to keep themselves and their loved ones safe.

Of course, that didn't keep them from laughing at his soft heart every time Doctor Thorne fussed over his patients the moment they were in the OR, but at least they were respectful when he mourned the victims' inevitable placement in the morgue.

'Yeah, he got this far' Benjamin nodded, 'and without killing any of us though he got two or three guns by the end of it. Could have killed us- would have been faster, too, to get away. I was there, saw it all. I got floored like it was the easiest thing in the world. 'S insane.'

James snapped his head to Ben, and glared: 'And you didn't think to tell me?! Where are you hurt?'

'M fine', Benjamin dodged, 'Knock to the head, was out for a couple seconds. Only got a headache'. The New Yorker had the annoying tendency to leave out important information in his sentences, such as complete verbs and personal pronouns, forever sounding like he was composing a text message out loud.

He pointed at Ben and threatened: 'I'll see to you later when I'm done operating. Don't take booze or painkillers and for god's sake: don't fall asleep!'

They arrived at the OR, which was the busiest it had ever been. Workers with first aid diplomas were taking care of the five less wounded guards just outside the room. The OR itself was empty except for two gurneys on which Marya and Abayoni- Russian and Egyptian guards, respectively- were thankfully already prepped. It had probably been done by Shaohan, whom he beckoned to follow him into surgery.

The Beijing cook was incredibly level-headed during emergencies and James had trained to him help during the worst surgeries. That was something at least: assistance, however small, would be greatly appreciated. He would have to perform two operations at the same time, after all, him being the only certified doctor and emergency surgeon.

They entered the room alone and closed the soundproof door behind them. James and Shaohan became Doctor Thorne and assistant Liu: they dismissed the noise and bustle outside, calmly putting on their work clothes and observing the situation, working out how they were going to perform the two surgeries together. As soon as they were ready, they set to work.


	4. Chapter 4: looking back

**Chapter 3: Looking back**

James sat down at his desk, heaved a deep sigh and poured himself a shot of the home-made vodka Marya had given him some months back. The recipe ran in the Russian woman's family, apparently. It was the strongest alcohol you could find in the building, and James was going to need it if he wanted to get through this.

Sometimes, the doctor had to watch recordings of interrogations to figure out what exactly the beasts had done to treat unconscious patients. The beasts usually refused to say what they'd done, and their victims were quite incapable of telling, after all.

It always reminded James of his own introduction to his new job at the complex. Watching torture never got any easier. Knowing that it would probably look like his own son under those butchers' hands made it even more difficult. He would still do it, as a favour to a brave, dead young man.

He hadn't even been able to put the bodies of the spy and the dead interrogators in the morgue himself. He'd been too busy operating the two guards, so the cleaning crew had done it for him. An indignity, surely, but it couldn't be helped.

Emrys had asked him to watch the last recording of Eggsy's interrogation as soon as possible. He needed to know what had happened, he said.

James had asked if Eggsy's _organisation_ needed to, or if _he_ needed to. The Scotsman had been silent. The doctor had understood all too well regardless: it was a comfort, to have the illusion that at least you were there, at least you witnessed the boy's last moments of defiance.

That request had been two very busy days ago. Now he was in the small bureau connected to his OR, finally having access to the recordings of Eggsy's rampage through the complex.

He _had_ to see them now, he thought. He finished the vodka shot ad fundum, coughed, then he put on the glasses.

'Emrys', he asked, 'Are you there?'

'The audio and video are undamaged. You know this, there is no need to check.'

'Just making sure.' James soothed.

A silence. Neither of them wanted to do this, but both felt like they had to. James clicked the play button on his computer screen.

The camera was pointed straight at the table on which the victims were usually tortured. Almost the whole interrogation room could be seen, though, as the camera was installed in a corner.

James couldn't see Eggsy. The table was empty. There was something going on in the corner farthest from the door, though, where all torture that couldn't be done on the table took place. By the time torture was moved away from the table, the interrogated were too weak to need to be chained anyway, unable to escape.

The thought made the doctor grimace. In what state was Eggsy that the cowardly beasts didn't fear a trained spy trying to escape anymore? They'd be proven wrong, but still.

Two of the three interrogators had their backs to the camera and were blocking the view to something on the ground before them. The third one's face was visible. He was clearly grinning as he was bent over, holding something down.

The two closest to the camera moved, and James could finally see what was going on. He wished he didn't.

Drowning. Eggsy was drowning, head forced underwater. He was kneeling naked on the floor, desperately fighting the hold on his neck and shoulders. He trashed and struggled, less and less every moment. Just before he completely stilled, the man holding him down grabbed his hair and pulled him up.

The videos were soundless; a sound recorder was always placed on a stool close to the action, but Eggsy's escape had broken it. James _knew_ the video recording was soundless, but at that moment he swore he could hear the boy heave for breath, so loud and desperate did it look.

He vaguely heard something break through the glasses' speakers. Knowing one's friend was tortured and seeing it were wholly different things, James knew. To break a pen was a relatively mild reaction to that.

The interrogator holding Eggsy leaned forward, saying something the camera couldn't catch.

'Ready to talk, now?' The doctor jumped as Emrys spoke in his ear.

'What?' James asked, confused.

'I'm telling you what they're saying', the Scotsman clarifies, 'I can read lips, and it seems unfair not to let you know.'

'Oh', James said, 'Thanks.'

Eggsy spit at the men and said something that needed no lip-reading to understand: fuck you. He was dunked under water again. It went on for some time- near drowning, desperate breaths, offensive answers to the same question- so James fast forwarded at Emrys' request. He played at normal speed again when something changed on the tape.

The boy was thrown against the wall by the frustrated interrogator. There was no need for any information to be extracted quickly, so they had taken their time. He'd heard from the guard Benjamin that they had _enjoyed_ such a challenge, but now, it seemed, their patience was at an end.

The leader- the one who had been doing the waterboarding- yelled and gestured at one of the others. Once the man had left, the remaining interrogators started kicking he boy who just curled up in the corner- for fun, no doubt.

'Wait', Emrys said. 'I didn't catch what he said. Play it again.' James re-winded, but it didn't help much.

'Play it again. It's not clear, he's half turned away from the camera.'

'And now?' James asked.

'I think it's "Go get the fucking –". Play that last word again?'

Emrys was silent for a moment, then started swearing like a sailor. 'Truth serum! The bastard said: "Go get the fucking truth serum". Do you have anything that could lower inhibitions enough to be a truth serum?'

The doctor cursed and dove for his supplies in the OR. The operation room was supposed to be _his_ place, dammit. He checked the cabinet filled with drug solutions for injection. One of the locked shelves had been cracked open and rifled through, why hadn't he noticed it before? He'd started locking those shelves exactly because the beasts didn't respect his workspace and constantly tried to use his supplies for interrogating against his will.

'It's gone. They stole it, the goddamn thieves, even though I forbid it every. Single. Time. It gets the patients high, in a way, and destroys their brain-to-mouth filter. No-one can stand against _that _and they know it." James reluctantly went back to his desk. He could see the leader injecting the solution into Eggsy's elbow on the screen, and paused the video.

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. 'I forbade it,' the doctor adds, 'because it's bloody dangerous- a 43% mortality rate- and almost immediately addictive. Not that we don't want him to die, we gave him a slow-working poison ourselves, after a—'

James gasped. 'The poison! The drug!'

'What? What!', Emrys asked worriedly.

'The drug! It could interfere with the working of the poison.' The doctor jumped up and went to the drug cabinet again, taking out a notebook. He leafed through until he found his notes on the drug. It didn't look very promising; the serum almost always messed with the effects of other administered medicine.

The poison would be no different. Eggsy would have died faster or he would have died more painfully, either by the poison's warped effects or by the drug overdose, or Eggsy could have died any other way. And Doctor Thorne couldn't be sure because he hadn't been the one putting away the body. The cleaners probably had done their best to barely look at it, much less notice anything strange. He was going to have to perform an autopsy now. He _hated_ autopsies.

'God damn it!', he cursed and beat a fist against the cabinet. He put the notebook away and returned to his desk. He sat down heavily. He needed to be frank to Emrys.

'I don't know what will happen now', he confessed, 'Most probably, Eggsy spilled every secret the bastards asked him questions about. I do know he electrocuted them eventually, though I don't know how exactly. I also know he died not far away from here- he was probably already half out of his mind by the time he got out of the room and probably came this way out of habit. With the new drugs in his system… he might not have collapsed and died as swiftly or painlessly as we'd planned. It will be even worse watching it than expected.'

James hesitated and looked at the screen. 'You don't- You don't have to see this, Emrys. I could summarise afterwards for you, if you can't watch it anymore? It must be, ah, pretty horrible as it is. I'm sorry.'

'That's kind of you, James', the Scotsman said determinedly, 'But no. I have to see it even more, now. If Eggsy gave them important information, then I will have to report it so that the organisation can prepare. I could ask you to walk away as well. Will you accept the burden of keeping the secrets you'll hear, James, even if it could make your life that much easier if you report to your superior?'

It was the first time Emrys had said his name, James noted absently while he thought about it.

He would not give away the secret, he decided. How could he betray the trust the boy and his handler had given him? They had promised his family security against the threats of his boss, had soothed a worry he hadn't even realized was always weighing on his mind until it was gone.

He would not abandon them- Eggsy with the sunny smile and brave heart, Emrys with the reassuring voice and unexpected kindness. This, this was his tie to decent people, to the outside world. The outside world was far away at the complex and contact with it, outside of the holidays, was rare. It was to be cherished.

He told Emrys he would keep the trust. Then James Thorne squared his shoulders, sat up straight and pressed play.


	5. Chapter 5: countdown

**Chapter 3 – 2: Countdown**

Eggsy's hands started shaking almost as soon as the drug was in his bloodstream. The camera could pick up on it from across the room, so obvious were the tremors and how the young man was trying to control it.

The interrogators laughed; they'd had their fun, now it was time to get information. The leader picked up the recorder from its place on the stool and sat down with his back to the camera. If there had been a way for him to lean back, James thought scathingly, then he would have done it only to show how satisfied he was, seeing a person break down in front of him. _Butchers_!, he thought, _Beasts_!

Emrys murmured tensely in his ear, 'Try to zoom in on Eggsy's face. I need to know what he says.'

'Not yet', the doctor said. 'The effects won't take hold immediately, especially if you resist it. You _can_ resist it, for a while, although it increases the mortality rating and hurries the dying process along. It might- and I can't believe this is now something positive- it _might_ kill him before he tells them something bad.'

The tremors died out after some minutes.

'Shit', James said and zoomed in. No more tremors meant that Eggsy had stopped resisting the drug and was about to spill. He didn't look too dazed, but that was no indication to how gone he was. There was no telling how bad it would be, especially with the two drugs influencing each other's working.

Eggsy moved then, uncurled from the corner he'd crawled into during the wait for the interrogator to come back with the serum. It was another corner than the one the waterboarding had been done in, this corner being dry. The butchers had barely moved, still standing in the puddle Eggsy's thrashing had created earlier, amusedly watching their victim's undignified crawl.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Eggsy leant forward until he was on his knees again. Then he pushed himself upward until he stood on his feet, swaying and eyes glaring. The interrogators were so taken aback by the glare that they retreated a step, giving the camera the full view of a naked, tortured, _standing_ Eggsy. The leader stood up from the stool, still holding the recorder.

It must have _hurt_, James thought, standing up. Then again, the serum was still a drug similar to a painkiller. Hell, Eggsy could probably do a backflip right now and not feel a thing.

'He's talking, rewind a bit and then slow it down a bit, if you can.' Emrys ordered urgently. 'This isn't going to be easy.'

'E- eight secrets? Rewind', the Scotsman said.

Then he read from the boy's lips: 'You want me to… sp-spill? I think … eight secrets. So it's "you want me to spill eight secrets". Okay, _fuck_. But I guess, if they give him the choice of what he'll tell them _first_, he might choose to give them inane shit until the poison sets in.'

Eggsy did, in fact, give them anything but spy secrets. He gave them personal ones.

He was born on Easter, so his dad gave him a nickname to do with the Easter Bunny. He hadn't let go of his nickname since. The interrogators laughed at him. Eight.

He was good at taking hits, because his stepdad had loose hands and dirty thoughts and angry words, and he wasn't going to let him touch his sister. One of the interrogators- the youngest- looked stricken, and took a step back. James knew for a fact the young man had sleeping problems, and sometimes yelled the wrong name when beating up the victim. So that's why, the doctor thought.) Seven.

His favourite films were all chick flicks, and he loved gymnastics and ABBA, because his mom had raised him not to be ashamed of it, but he let it go when his stepdad came into the picture, and he was still embarrassed when he thought of it. The butchers laughed again, probably taunting the lad. Six.

He'd loved the marines. Loved it with all his heart, would have died for it gladly, but his mother had called, and instead of dying like a hero he'd had to live like a nobody. He still hadn't really forgiven her. Five.

He'd never been a rentboy, but he would have slept with the man who got him out of prison because he looked like everything Eggsy wanted. Four.

He'd never been a daddy's boy, but he would have become a son to the man who got him out of prison because he was everything Eggsy wanted to be. Three.

He'd never been a tragic heroine, but he would never forget the man who got him out of prison because he was everything Eggsy never got. Two.

When he reached two, the spy threw something at the interrogators' feet that glinted gold.

'How did he even keep hold of the ring?!' Emrys yelled disbelievingly, just as the thing reached the ground and landed in the puddle the butchers were standing in.

There were no sparks, but burn marks could be seen spreading lightning fast over every piece of visible skin and the men started convulsing. The three fell down one by one and the sound recorder was destroyed by the violent contractions of the leader's hand. James was glad he did not have to see their faces.

When the men stopped twitching and the electrocution ended, the spy grimly stepped around the bodies and stole knives from the torture table in the middle of the room. He walked as if he were on a rolling deck of a ship. The cocktail of poison and drug finally kicking in and messing up his balance if not his perception, Doctor Thorne did not doubt.

When the spy had armed himself, he looked straight at the camera and held up two fingers. Just before he leaves the room, he says a final, short sentence. His eyes looked sad, determined and a little dazed.

Emrys's voice cracks with tears as he reads the words from Eggsy's lips: '"One. I'm in love with a dead man and his name is Harry Hart."'

James stopped the recording and took off the broken glasses to give Emrys some privacy. He ran his hands through his hair again and pours himself another glass of vodka, which he drinks in one go.

He didn't pretend the tears in his eyes were caused by the burn of the alcohol going down. He owes the young spy that, at least.


	6. Chapter 6: the new guard

There was a man he didn't know waiting in front of his cell-like room when he came back from watching the recordings in his office. He slowed down. The man could be for him, he panicked, he must have been found out, he was here to take him away for punishment, or –

The unknown man- probably an employee from a different part of the complex- noticed him and fully turned his way. He was tall, middle-aged and had a kind, though heavily scarred face. He didn't look much like a threat. 'Doctor Thorne?', the man called.

'Yes, Thorne answered, 'How may I help you?'. He moved closer. It wasn't like he could escape possible punishment anyway.

'I do apologize for my abruptness, but I was wondering if I could make use of your first aid kit until I have access to my own?', the man said with a flawless Received Pronunciation.

Ah, James thought, a fellow Brit. A gentleman at that, it seemed. He was relieved he wasn't in any danger, but after the relief came the irritation. He'd had a long day already and it was about to become even longer.

'There is no need for self-treatment', the doctor said waspishly 'I'd rather do it myself now, than repairing a botched attempt at first aid later. Follow me.'

He turned around and heard the man fall into step behind him. 'Besides', James added, 'I have to replace your file from your previous department. No communication allowed, after all. Damned secrecy.'

'I am not from any previous departments, Doctor Thorne. I'm a new guard', the man corrected.

'What?' James turned around abruptly: 'You're _new_? And _walking_?! Good grief!'

The doctor inspected the newcomer closely and finally noticed the tension in his shoulders, the pained expression, the favouring of the man's right leg and left arm. The man didn't say anything, but he looked disconcerted by the doctor's scrutiny. Or perhaps by the way Thorne knew exactly where to look for injuries.

How could he have missed it, he lamented, he'd seen it a dozen times before. He'd seen to nearly everyone, being one of the boss's oldest employees. Granted, newcomers usually turned up at the OR, escorted by a guard and barely conscious because of the pain. They were almost always in a wheelchair. This man's cool was…impressive.

If anything, it reminded him of Eggsy's determination not to seem bothered by his torture. The sobering thought made him turn around again and proceed to the OR. The man followed without comment.

They finally reached the OR, which was annoyingly far from his room. James bustled in, going straight for his supply cabinet and arranging what he needed to treat the man's injuries by rote.

He absentmindedly pointed at one of the stretchers and ordered the newcomer: 'Clothes off and lie down.' James immediately realized he was being rude at the man for something he couldn't help and apologized.

'I'm sorry, I've had a rough day', he explained over his shoulder, 'Lie down, _please_.'

'It's quite all right', the man said, 'As a doctor in your own operation room, you are within your rights to order me around.'

By the time James had gathered everything he needed, the man was lying down in only his pants. Most newcomers had their understandable reservations about getting naked again so shortly after their initiation. This one didn't. Interesting.

Surveying the usual wounds, the doctor decided that he would treat the man first and compose this medical file later. Quite irresponsible, he knew, and not at all what was expected of real doctors. But torture wound treatment always took priority; any information gathered before the newcomers were stable was confused anyway. He'd learned that the hard way.

'Please tell me if I hurt you', Thorne said, and started his routine. Bruising hidden beneath the hair, on the left shoulder, in the lower back and both thighs. Multiple superficial cuts on all the joints, deep cuts in a checkerboard pattern on the chest. Cigarette burn marks just inside the thighs. Taser marks on the man's back. Friction marks where the straps usually were: neck, wrists, upper arms, stomach, thighs, and ankles. All incredibly familiar.

When he had finished and started cleaning away his supplies, he noticed the man opened his mouth but hesitated.

'I won't spill anything', James urged him on, 'I work with strict confidentiality. The boss doesn't even have any cameras in here. So, you can ask whatever you want and I'll answer what I can, okay?'

The man considered that for a moment and checked for cameras. Suspicious man, that one. He acted just like Eggsy had done on his first OR visit.

Just as he was pondering the strange similarities, the stranger asked: 'Why are you treating this as something normal? It's forbidden to torture people, by international agreement. And yet you knew what my wounds were before you saw them, and treated them without having to think about it. This kind of abuse is normal for you. Why?'

James sighed. Why was he always the one having to explain this? He finished cleaning, dragged over a chair and sat down before he explained it all.

This was a prison complex run by a powerful crime lord, James disclosed, whose main revenue came from interrogating people for other crime lords. He never failed in getting the information he needed. He tricked his employees into believing they would be would be working for a secret organization working at the highest level of discretion, but instead they had to work in criminal jobs. The boss immediately tortured new employees and threatened their families to make them comply as soon as they had fallen into his trap.

The man was anything but happy with what was revealed. 'Surely you could alert the authorities?!', he interrupted the doctor.

'And risk your life and that of your loved ones?', James points out. 'I don't think so. True, you can tell the police when you're on a holiday visit to your family, but by the time they respond you and everyone you love is done for. Besides, what can you tell them? You have no proof. Do you even know where the complex _is_?'

The man thought about that, but couldn't answer. 'I fell asleep on the plane here', he admits.

'Let me guess. You thought that the complimentary drink on the private plane tasted off, but by then you were already out like a light?'

The man nods reluctantly. The fact that he was tricked seems to anger him immensely. He probably blames himself, James thinks.

'It happens to all of us, my friend,' James reassures him, 'and most of us were hired for our genius. You couldn't help it. Any other questions? Good, then we can start on your file.'


	7. Chapter 7: a spotless mind

**Chapter 5: A known stranger (beginning)**

'What do you need to know?', the unknown guard said as he carefully sat up. Doctor Thorne handed him his clothes before his patient had to bend down and pull his stitches.

'Well, sir', James said, 'If you feel up to writing, I'd prefer it if you fill in the file yourself. I'll read it over and ask further information when necessary. I've indicated what boxes you don't need to fill in _now_ in case you don't feel up to it yet. Sadly, you're expected to get to work as soon as possible, so you can't spend as much time in here as you and I wish. You're supposed to be on your way quite soon, I reckon.' The speech was by rote, he'd said it so often.

The man gestured for the file and pen that James was holding in his hands and nodded gratefully when he received them. He started reading and writing immediately, though the doctor noted how carefully the man held himself. The new guard wasn't as unaffected as he wished.

'Thank you, I appreciate your effort. Believe me, I relish any rest you can give me', he said gratefully.

The man looked at him as he said it, then continued writing. Absentmindedly he remarked: 'I have been told by my interrogators I had to check in with you and then immediately go guard "the latest addition to this place". I don't suppose you know where I can find this poor person?'

James froze. Was he talking about Eggsy? But how could he be talking about guarding Eggsy when he had died two days ago? James needed to be careful, and find out more.

'When were you given this order, exactly?', he asked.

The man thinks for a moment. 'A day or four ago? I don't quite remember', he guesses, 'At the beginning of the –what do you call it? The "initiation"?'

James thinks about that for a while. Initiations don't usually last more than a day or two. If the man had been tortured for four days he would be in a worse state than usual. His wounds were the same, though, if somewhat better healed. So he must have been tortured the usual two days and then mostly forgotten due to the commotion of "the latest addition" escaping.

He told his patient so, and the man conceded that he hadn't been touched the final two days, though still given food.

'I didn't see the interrogators again', the new guard remembered, 'and the guards bringing my food seemed occupied with other things than myself. You said that the one I had to guard has escaped?'

He sounded hopeful, perhaps hoping he could escape as well.

James should nip that in the bud, he realized, for his sake and that of his loved ones. 'The boy tried to escape. He failed. He… died of his wounds.' It had been only days ago, and he couldn't keep a little bit of grief slipping in his words.

The man deflated: 'Oh. I'm sorry.'

'So am I. He was a young man with a kind heart. He shouldn't have been here at all. No-one should be; no-one should die like that.'

James looked down and away. He thought of watching the recordings; of Eggsy blowing through the corridors like a whirlwind, shooting and slashing his way to freedom heedless of his wounds; of Eggsy slowly losing to the poison, stumbling, falling, collapsing in an empty corridor; of his naked and lifeless body being carried away to the morgue by cleaners who gave him the bare minimum of respect.

James was pulled from his thoughts by a clipboard being held in front of his face. 'Oh, ah, thank you.'

He took over the clipboard and skimmed the file. He saw immediately that far too much information had been left open.

'You've written down barely any history. No name, birth place, date,…' All the personal information filled in was that the person before him was male, probably English, probably in his late forties or early fifties… The word 'probably' was used a lot.

'That would be', the man explained somewhat reluctantly, 'because I don't know myself. I have been hit near my eye by a bullet in the year 2015, and it has left me with severe amnesia. You will notice that _that_ information _is_ in my file.'

So it was. It appeared the man before him had had to stay in the care of an American hospital for two years, with no knowledge whatsoever of his former life. He had been in need of extensive surgery and long-term recovery. James remarked that it must have cost a fortune to stay in hospital that long in _America_

'It did cost a fortune', the man confirmed. It seemed as if he wanted to say more then, but felt reluctant to at the same time.

'You can trust me. I'm a doctor and I respect my oath of silence. No information in this room will be shared with others- unless there is the potential of harm to others', James insisted. 'Besides, I really do need to know as much about you and your history as I can.

The man without a memory conceded and begun to tell his story, refusing to meet the doctor's eyes all the while.

'I was found unconscious in front of a hate-spreading church in Kentucky. The church was full of people killed in horrible ways; it was thought the church-goers had all started attacking and killing each other, just like The Disaster, which happened the day after. I myself was extremely wounded as well, but alive through sheer luck. Had the shot to the head been slightly more to my right, it would have killed me.'

'The head wound left me comatose for four months, due to a severe swelling in the brain. When I woke up four months later, it was to a reduced eyesight and a memory wiped clean of all personal information. There were no other long-term effects- thanks to some small miracle, no doubt. I still had to undergo a year of exhaustive training to even speak decently. Six months after that, I was finally able to move completely independently. They treated me as well as they could, trying their best to keep the medical bills to a minimum, but the final sum was still outrageous. I dislike being so tied down, and I could have run, but I owed them my life and sanity and I don't take debts like that lightly.'

'It is how I was recruited', he explains, 'I feared I would be homeless, destitute and scrambling to pay the hospital bills until I died, when I was suddenly offered this job. I would have some small role in the household of a rich man's remote mansion, just another low-level employee but with surprisingly good pay. I just thought one of the patients sharing the long-term recovery ward had wanted to help a fellow out and had recommended me to her husband- our boss.'

He waved around himself and laughed bitterly: 'And now I'm henchman number three in a Bond movie.'

'Apparently,' he continued, 'the woman had noticed how I reacted to sudden noises, how I tracked the movement of the people around me, how scarred my body was, how I was the only one to survive in a crowd of forty people bent on murder,…'

'I guess she thought a man as alert like that, as capable of violence, would make a good guard. I might have been a good guard, once, or a good soldier. I suspect that some of my more… violent… dreams could be memories from a time in my life where I was some kind of soldier. I can't trust those dreams completely, though, because they're ridiculously fantastical.'

James noticed that slowly, the man started to relax and look into his eyes more. He was also surprisingly talkative. The man had just needed someone to talk to who wouldn't judge him. It appeared James was that person.

He could understand the desperation to just have someone to talk to who _listened_. It was why he appreciated his talks with Emrys so much. Busy as he was, the man did try his best.

Then again, his chatty behaviour could also be due to the painkillers the doctor had administered. They tended to leave one a bit…loopy. Now that he thought about it, the man was slurring a tiny bit, if you paid attention.

'Why,' the man mused, 'my fantastical dreams are almost spy movies!'

The word "spy" caught James' attentions. Could it be the man once was a spy like Eggsy, who'd lost his memory on a mission gone wrong? It would explain how the man was capable of withstanding the initiation with hardly any problems, while most new employees had needed quite a lot of help to work through it physically and emotionally.

'When you say "spy movie", what do you mean?' he asked curiously.

'I mean that there are lighters that explode, poisons in hidden in pens and knives hidden in shoes… There are interrogations and seductions and shoot-outs and chases… It's all so bloody unbelievable! I would think it was all fantasy if it wasn't for…' The man stopped talking.

James made a motion for the man to continue. 'For…?'

The man's voice becomes soft and warm in a way it hadn't been before.

'The spy dreams aren't nightmares. Some of them are very nice- there are even puppies, for some reason. I have friends in my dreams, whom I care about a lot and I think they care about me too. Especially this one bald man, who's very Scottish. I never really understand what he's saying, but it's both fond and biting. It's nice. There's also this young man. He's so bright, so caring, but at the same time he's a killer like me. He makes me feel so proud, so loved. Like I did something with my life, and it was good. I love them. I love him.'

James reconsidered the man's talkative behaviour and came to the conclusion that _that_ emotional revelation was definitely influenced by painkillers. The Englishman in front of him wouldn't bare his emotions like that when he'd been so reserved before. It had been foolish of the doctor to assume that the man had been _sufficiently_ fed during his initiation, when the guards had been so occupied that they had forgotten to let him out at all.

But the painkillers weren't giving the man new feelings, they were only lowering his inhibitions slightly. The man still needed someone to talk to, or he wouldn't be as chatty as _this_, showing his sadness and loneliness so easily.

The man's voice became bitter for a moment: 'Nearly every spy dream I have feels real- as if that _was_ my life once, even though it can't have been. As if someone could love me, as if I ever was a gentleman spy, _hah_! A damn assassin would be more probable.I must have killed a lot of people, after all, to come out the only survivor. And none of it was my choice. I don't think I wanted to kill anyone, and I still did, because someone _told_ my brain to.'

He paused. It must have been horrible, James thought, waking up with no memories at all, having to hear that you had killed a lot of people, never being certain what exactly you'd done, how guilty or innocent you were. Never knowing how much of the killing was you being controlled and how much of it was just _you_. Knowing that your mind- the one place where you should be safe- had been invaded so easily, had been persuaded to do something so horrible.

James could empathize. He'd killed the whole OR and three patients during The Disaster himself. He wasn't arrested. So many people had killed and hurt other people that day, that half the world's population would have to be incarcerated. The doctor wasn't held responsible for his crimes, but he still resigned six months after the fact, as soon as he wasn't essential to the hospital any longer. _Primum non nocere_. He took his promises very seriously.

James regretted it now. He'd slipped into a downwards spiral as soon as he had no work to occupy his thoughts anymore, and his emotional instability and the high costs of a psychiatrist had worsened his money problems. His financial insecurity had left him vulnerable enough for the boss to seduce him into his service easily.

The man continued his story, interrupting the doctor's musing: 'I should have been arrested. I can kill so easily, after all. If I were incarcerated, I couldn't be told to do it again.'

'I _would_ have been arrested if the world didn't go to shit right after. The authorities are still looking for an explanation as to why we were hit by The Disaster so much sooner than the rest of the world, but they consider the church and The Disaster similar enough to let me go as well. '

'Then again' the man mused 'the authorities are also still looking for an explanation as to why the world was hit by The Disaster _at all_. Did you know that the hospital staff couldn't even check any databases for who I was until some six months ago, because so many government facilities were down for so long?'

'And did they find out who you are?', James asked curiously, despite the many blank spaces in the file hinting at the contrary.

The man shook his head. 'They didn't find anything on the name I'd given them. They thought I might have unconsciously picked up that name because it was so similar to John Doe. All my records say 'John "South Glade" Doe' now, after the church where they found me. I don't like it.'

'Is that why you didn't fill in your name?', the doctor asked, 'Because you prefer being called something other than after that place?'

James smiled at him reassuringly in response to the man's hopeful nod. 'This file is no way an official record,' he said, 'so you can call yourself whatever you want, as long as you feel that that is your name.'

'It is a bit of a strange name. In truth, it belongs to my dreams more than it does to me,' the man warned him. He was smiling softly, though, and seemed far more at ease.

'But I'd like to call myself Harry. Harry Hart. Pleased to meet you.'


	8. Chapter 8: remembering

**Chapter 6: Remembering**

'_You're_ Harry Hart?!', James yelped in shock.

His mind raced through the possibilities, going in overdrive.

He considered that the man could be a plant by the boss in response to his helping Eggsy, but then he immediately rejected it. It was clear by the man' wounds that he'd been brought into the complex four days ago, two days before Eggsy had used that name and died right after.

But Eggsy had said that Harry Hart was a dead man, so how could he be standing _here_ if he was _dead_?

The head wound. Of course, _the head wound_, James thought. It had left the man in a coma for four months, and had given him amnesia afterwards. If an English agent went to the USA and remained unresponsive, of course his agency would presume him dead, especially with The Disaster striking right after.

The world had gone to hell right after he was shot, no agency would consider looking for a corpse in another country if the world needed rebuilding first.

And how could they have even found him in the resulting chaos, one John Doe among many? Why, the doctor remembered, many databases dedicated to retrieving lost family members hadn't been up until a year and half after the man's "death"! If they looked for a Harry Hart, he must have already been registered as deceased by his people, if Harry Hart was even his real name.

The idea had solidified quickly in the doctor's mind: this man must be Eggsy's Harry Hart. He had come to this conclusion even before the man-Harry- had hurriedly sat up and stumbled up to him.

Harry grabbed his shoulders and shook them. 'You know who I am?', he asked desperately. Wonder shone from his eyes.

James nodded, excited now that he could finally, _truly_ help someone: 'Yes! Yes! Well, no, I know _of_ you. Good god man, take a seat before you fall over!'

The other man laughed joyously even as he was swaying on his feet, and quickly sat down. 'I've never met someone who knew _anything_ about me. Where are you going?'

'Checking something', James said over his shoulder as he stepped inside his office and closed the door behind him.

He dove for the lowest drawer of his desk and dug out the broken spy's glasses he had hidden there. He put them on, clumsy in his haste; 'Emrys? Emrys, are you there? I swear to God, you need to pick up the phone right the hell now!'

There was a short silence before he heard the Scotsman's voice, as calm as he was giddy. 'You said you would go to your cell to sleep, but you're back already. Are you compromised?', he asked.

'No! Possibly? Look, I need to check whether the new guard is genuine. If the information he's just told me really is something only allies would know, as I suspect, then I've got some incredible news. Quite literally.'

Emrys took a while to respond, probably weighing the possibilities. 'We've sent you no allies. This is extremely suspicious, I hope you realize? Good. Tell me the info first, then I'll decide. Go.'

'Harry Hart.' A gasp. James rushed to summarize what he'd gotten from the conversation with the man in the other room.

'He was probably a spy like Eggsy. He went for a mission to somewhere in the USA called South Glade- I think- but never returned. Presumed dead when he didn't come back. Now that I think of it, you probably saw it all happen, if he had glasses like your boy had.'

'Anyway, Harry Hart, presumed dead because of a shot to the head in a church! The Disaster happened right after, followed by a shitload of chaos, so you never got around to picking up his body.'

There was a long silence. 'Also, you're possibly a friend of his. And bald', James added spontaneously, 'There were puppies, too.'

He may be a middle aged English surgeon with a ex-wife and son, but the possibility of finding someone who'd returned from the dead made him too hasty to really watch his words.

'Who…', Emrys finally whispered, 'How do you know that? No one's supposed to know that.'

A beat, then: '_Shit_, we have a mole! Bloody buggering bumfuck, god-fucking-'

James interrupted what would undoubtedly become a long rant filled with enough swearing to make sailors blush. 'I don't think you do.'

'What?', Emrys blurted out, shocked. The man was probably never interrupted mid-sentence. He seemed the type who scared you to shut the hell up with barely a look. Not unlike his old English teacher.

'I don't think you have a mole', James repeated. 'I think _I_ have a witness. Possibly, I have a miracle. Look, your Harry... Was he middle age, brown hair, brown eyes, BBC English?'

'How do you know this?'

'So it's true?'

'_Yes_, but how did you _get it, _James?'

'I told you, I think I have a miracle.'

'Will you bloody tell me already?'

'You wouldn't believe me. Hang on.' James took a fortifying breath. If he was right, he figured he needed to be the rock out of the three of them. Something like this didn't happen every day, and it wouldn't be easy on Emrys. Harry could be triggered, as well. _Someone_ needed to be on top of it all.

Then he opened the door to the OR and stepped out. The other man hadn't moved from his seat. He was fiddling with his cuffs nervously, looking down at them intently.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening, hope shining brightly in his eyes. When he caught sight of the glasses, something like recognition flitted across his face. He stood up slowly, eyes fixed on the glasses.

'Merlin?', he asked cautiously.

In his ears, James heard Emrys hold back a sob.

'_Harry_?'

The doctor breathed easily. He was right: this was Harry Hart, returned from the dead.

Since both men seemed incapable of further speech, he took to explaining the story he'd pieced together from Harry's medical past. He started with Harry's bullet wound and ended with Harry telling James his name.

At the end of it, he noticed that Harry's legs were shaking- exhaustion or emotion, he didn't know. The doctor demanded him to sit and dragged a chair over himself.

'Emrys- No, _Merlin_ asked him to hold the glasses in front of Harry's face.

'Why not give them to him,' James asked confusedly, 'surely that would be easier to understand each other?'

'I want to see his face, just for a while longer', Merlin admitted softly. 'I- I missed it. He was an old and close friend, and I missed him for two very long years. Having him alive will take some getting used to'

'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. He's back now, isn't he?'

'That, he is.'

'Now hand over the glasses, I need to check how bad the amnesia is and I'd like some privacy for that.'

James puttered around, cleaning up his office and operation room, while Merlin took stock of what Harry remembered. It seemed they were working chronologically, though he did his best not to listen in.

They were halfway into Merlin quizzing Harry on his knowledge of gadgets-it appeared Harry remembered everything, he had only assumed that his memories were dreams because of how unbelievable a past as a spy was- when suddenly Harry gasped in sudden remembrance, stood up from his seat and strode up to James. The doctor tensed as the man grabbed his arms.

'The glasses!', he demanded, 'How did you get the glasses? You've been locked in this complex for years; an agent must have been captured for you to get these. Where are they?' .

Before he could answer, a new realization flitted across Harry's face and the spy tightened his hold on the doctor. 'How do you even know my name? Why would you recognize it? I've been dead two years, it's old news. Why would the other agent tell you my name?'

James floundered, trying to find a gentle way to tell this man that a young man, a colleague, had died with Harry Hart's name on his lips. He couldn't. 'Galahad', he heard Merlin order, 'stand _down_.'

Harry shook him with fervour twice, but he soon started weakening. 'How can I trust you?', he asked desperately, softer now, 'Who told you about me?'.

James caught him as he started swaying on his feet. Harry bowed his head and the doctor had to hurry to catch the glasses before they fell on the ground. He quickly put them on himself.

Merlin was silent in his ears, but James knew what he wanted to say. 'Harry', he whispered softly, 'I think you know who would still talk about you after all this time.'

The man sobbed and shook his head in denial. 'Yes you do, Harry', James told him as he guided him back to his seat.

'Is he here? Is he being tortured?', Harry asked. 'Oh Harry', James sighed. Like he had said, he had a soft heart, and it was crying for this poor man. He remembered, now, how Harry had told him about a young blonde man in his dreams. I think I love him, he'd said. The young man had loved him back. And yet when they could have been reunited, here, of all places, the boy had died mere yards away from the man.

Almost. The saddest word of all, wasn't it?

'Eggsy was here, yes. And I am sorry', James said, 'I am so sorry, but he's dead.'

Harry groaned and bent forward. His right hand he held over his mouth, then over his eyes. His left hand he balled into a fist. He took shallow breaths and James saw his shoulders shake. The man painted a picture of silent grief.

When he had started remembering things from his past- the familiar glasses undoubtedly the trigger- he had looked many years younger through sheer joy. He looked much older now, James thought, torn apart by grief, weighed down by that unforgiving "almost".

'I'm sorry. Do you- Do you want to say goodbye to him?', James suggested.

It was soon, yes, but Harry was still susceptible to the painkillers, and maybe it would make things easier in the long run for him to let it out now when his emotions were closer to the surface. Damned stiff upper lip could impede the mourning process.

Harry looked up at him, his eyes shiny although no tears had fallen yet. 'Did he die so recently that I could still say goodbye?'

'Two days ago.'

The man jerked: 'The guards-'

'Yes, the guards forgot about you for that exact same reason. He'd been here eight days,' James explained, 'there was no way of truly escaping… we decided to make it look like he died as a consequence of the interrogation and administered a slow-working poison, with his consent. The interrogators gave him something to make him talk, though, before he could die peacefully of the poison. He- he talked about you to keep from giving away big secrets. He escaped for a short while, barely a few minutes, but the poison kicked in before he got anywhere.'

Harry lowered his head in his hands and thought for a while. Then he nodded: 'I want to see him.'

'Well', James said as if Harry were a frightened animal, cautious of hurting him even more, 'Then I'll go and get him, all right? You're gonna be okay until I get back? Just nod, yes or no.'

At Harry's gesture, the doctor looked straight at the camera in the spy glasses: 'Merlin- or Emrys or whatever you're called- you need to talk to him, or let him talk, but don't leave any silences. He's not alone'- James squeezed the man's shoulder- 'so show him that he isn't. Talk about the weather for all I care, but don't. leave. him. alone.'

With that, James stood up and left for the morgue.


	9. Chapter 9: desperation

**Chapter 7: Desperation**

James was careful with Eggsy as he carried him from the shelf in the morgue to the stretcher on wheels. He arranged his arms to lie by his side with gloved hands, and took a moment to look down at the young man's face. It was a lie, that the dead looked like they were sleeping. The dead looked like they were dead. But Eggsy was special, once again. He looked asleep: eyes closed, face at peace, loose limbs, young.

James wanted to beg his forgiveness. He wanted to say he was sorry he had given him poison a day too early, had offered him an out too soon. He should have waited, so Eggsy and Harry could have had their reunion. They could have met again, broken but alive. They almost met. They almost found each other again.

It was the almost that made James undeserving of Eggsy's forgiveness.

With that bitter thought, James covered the body with a white blanket and rolled the stretcher from the morgue to the operation room. It was late at night, and the corridors of the complex were deserted.

Harry was still seated when the doctor came in with the stretcher behind him. As soon as the man saw the blanket-covered body, his face became a blank slate. He was emotionless, except for his eyes. Harry did nothing but stare almost fearfully for an endless moment. It looked, James thought, as if his greatest fear lied on that table. And maybe it did.

When the dead stillness had gone on too long, the doctor started to fidget. The movement seemed to startle Harry into action. He took off his glasses, holding them loosely in his right hand as he rose slowly. He looked brittle, so old and weighed down with all the grief in the world. James pitied him.

Reluctantly, the man with the eyepatch came to the stretcher. His steps were unsteady, and he grabbed the stretcher for support as soon as he could reach it. His expression changed abruptly as he looked at the body before him.

His eyes were wide and his mouth had fallen open slightly as he mournfully traced the contours of Eggsy's face beneath the blanket with a shaking left hand. Two years spent reaching in dreams for the boy he loved, but when he could finally touch him, he was already gone. The thought made James take a silent step back, hurt with guilt.

When finally Harry dared to lift the blanket away, his face became unbearably young and vulnerable in its loss. His breathing shivered and a soft keen escaped as his mouth turned into a grimace.

Harry Hart collapsed in on himself, as his head bowed, his back bent and he fell on his knees. The blanket, which his hand had held in a white-knuckled grip, slipped to the ground. Great sobs tore themselves from the man's throat as he dropped the blanket and glasses to tear at his hair.

James hurried to his side, when Harry started babbling.

'I never told him! I never told him, I loved him, I could have told him! I could have loved him, loved him _forever_, all my _life_. I should have gone, gone first, not _him_. It should never have been him. Never him, not before I told him. I should have- _Oh_!'

To the doctor's horror, he sat up on his knees and grabbed blindly until he found Eggsy's hand. He pulled it down to him, alternatively kissing it and touching it to his forehead. This last shock, James realized, had been too much, and he sat down to lay a hand on Harry's shivering back.

'Forgive me!' Harry murmured, lost in desperate grief, 'Please, my boy, forgive me, I didn't know. I love you. I love you, I love you, forgive me. I'm sorry, my boy. Forgive me. Forgive me'.

A horrible thought hit James, sitting there next to this grieving wreck of a man. When Harry said 'forgive me', he did not ask for forgiveness. He pleaded: "come back". He begged: "Don't be dead". It broke his heart.

The sobs and pleas continues for a while, Harry begging for forgiveness over and over. James sat down next to him then entire time, never once losing contact. When the sobs finally started dying down, James reached for Eggsy's hand.

At first, Harry resisted, clutching it closer to him. But then the man looked at him, for the first time since he had entered the operation room, and realized where he was and what he was doing. Shame came over him, and he looked down and away as he let Eggsy's hand slip from his fingers. Carefully, James laid the hand back on the stretcher.

'Harry,' he murmured, 'it's okay. You've had a lot of nasty shocks the last couple of days, you've got drugs in your system that push your emotions to the surface and you're _grieving, _Harry. Losing your cool is completely understandable and nothing to be worried about. Do you know where your room is?'

Harry nodded mutely.

'Okay, well then, how about I give you something to help you sleep that won't mess with what's already in your system and escort you to your room? You need sleep-No, hey, shh!', he said at Harry's panicked glance up at the stretcher, 'You can come back tomorrow, when you've had _time to recover_ from it all a bit. Doesn't that sound good, Harry? Tomorrow, yeah? Okay.'

Squeezing Harry's shoulder, the doctor stood up, took off his gloves and went to his cabinet. There he picked the necessary sleeping pill, and hurried back to where his patient was trying to stand up on weak knees. He helped him get up and guided him to the door.

Keeping up a soft soothing murmur, James escorted the grieving man to his room, saw to it that he took the pill and went to sleep. Exhausted, he dragged his feet as he went back to the operation room.

Overlooking the dropped glass and blanket, the chairs in the middle of the room and the uncovered body, James sighed heavily.

As he went to drape the blanket over Eggsy, he noticed something out of place. 'Now, didn't I put you back before?', he murmured as he laid Eggsy's hand back next to his sides from where it had been dangling over the edge of the stretcher.

He picked up the glasses and agreed with Merlin to call it quits and continue to sort out the mess- the whole mess, Harry, Eggsy and all- the next day. He was putting the glasses away in his office when something niggling in the back of his mind stopped him.

The hand _had been warm._


	10. Chapter 10: lazarus again

**Chapter 10: Lazarus again**

"-octor Thorne? Doctor?"

The shout and insistent knocking woke him up, and James let out a disgruntled grumble as he straightened himself out of the armchair he'd been sleeping in. He'd duct taped the Keep Away- sign on the door for a _reason_.

He moved carefully around the stretcher in the confined space of his bureau. Because the door leading to the operation room couldn't swing open completely, James was forced to squeeze through. He straightened himself out while he walked to the exit door that someone was still knocking on and opened it with a barked "_What_?!".

Benjamin looked startled and blinked a couple times before lowering his fist. "You okay?", he asked concernedly.

The concern confused James. "What? Yes. Why?"

"Haven't been sleeping well. Checked up on you. Weren't in your room. Came here. Knocked. Were here, and grumpy." Ben's concern turned to relief, then to amusement.

The typical clipped sentences of Benjamin were tougher to parse through than normal for James' sleep addled brain, so it took him a moment to understand that the young guard had come to check up on him out of concern before he sighed.

"Ben, did you _read_ the sign?" and pointed at the paper on the door that said: 'DO NOT DISTURB Except In Case Of Urgent Medical Attention (even then, bring hot beverage)'.

"Yes."

"And _is_ there a medical emergency?"

"Not really."

James sighed again and rubbed in his eyes with one hand while hanging off the edge of the door with the other. "Then _maybe_", the doctor explains exasperatedly, "you should have obeyed the sign."

"Maybe." The New Yorker smiled innocently, unphased by the doctor's displeasure.

James had to hold himself back from slapping him on the shoulder. He clenched his fist and pressed it against his forehead in frustration.

"Benjamin."

"Yeah, doc?"

"At least, you could have gotten me some hot coffee or tea. With sugar."

Ben's smile became smug and held up the hand he'd held behind his back. "Better. Sugar with hot coffee."

James took the cup reverently. "You're almost forgiven for waking me up", he whispered.

"Apology accepted."

"That wasn't an apology, Ben", he said while eyeing him.

"Yes, it was", the young guard grinned.

James grumbled before taking a sip. Then he looked at the smug New Yorker, and asked how his head was. After being assured the boy had recovered well from being hit on the head by a whirlwind of a spy trying to escape, he sent Benjamin to bring the new guard to his door.

"Middle-aged, scars 'round his eye. You can't miss him. Also, tea and breakfast! Hang on, I'll give you my thermos. It's somewhere… right…here! Thanks, Ben!"

As Ben went to fetch what the doctor had asked with only a quizzical eyebrow, James contemplated letting him in on the secret. He couldn't shuttle between Harry and Merlin forever, and things would only be getting more complicated. He was already stretched thin.

He could trust Benjamin. He loved the boy as his own, and he thought the boy liked him enough to never betray him. Banter like just now was the norm between them, fondness shining through every word, but they could still hold a serious conversation if need be.

Yeah, he was going to trust Benjamin. Just not yet, though. The next hour or so would be strange already, even without having to fill the boy in on what was in essence Lazarus times two. Trepidation made him gulp down the coffee and hastily throw the cup away before getting to work.

James went to check on Eggsy's vitals. He had had to do without any alarm or other electronic equipment, as the equipment's piercing sounds in the middle of the night would give the game away to any who passed.

The doctor would have to make do with what he had: a watch with an arm for the seconds to count the pulse and respiration rate, a light to see if the pupils reacted well, a thermometer to check for fever or hypothermia, a small shiny object to register even the faintest breath. He couldn't even use a sphygmomanometer to record the blood pressure, as the damn thing let out a shockingly loud _peep_ when done. All he had for a call- button was a plastic bottle placed precariously in Eggsy's hand that would fall and make noise if the boy shifted when waking up- a fallen bottle was a normal enough noise, after all.

The body temperature had risen to just below normal, he was glad to note, even though Eggsy's unlucky stay in the morgue had kept it dangerously low. Hell, if Harry hadn't mourned as long as he had, Eggsy could still have been too cold for the doctor to notice the unusual heat of his hand when he left.

He was lucky that Eggsy's pulse was strong enough to be noticed by hand at all, weak as it had been when James first looked for the heart rate.

The boy's breath was becoming stronger and more regular as well, as James could almost see his chest rising and falling if he looked hard enough.

He prepared and administered a needle full of nutrients as well to counteract two days without anything of food and drink. He had to "feed" Eggsy regularly, needle by needle, as installing a nutrient-and- saline drip to feed what should be a corpse was conspicuous- to say the least.

Even with all the positive signs, James still hoped fervently he'd used the right stimulants last night to counteract the unexpected results of the drug mix. He hoped him slaving through the night, and staying in his office holding his hand to Eggsy's pulse point would make a difference. He hoped he'd found a way to fix the whole damn mess.

The doctor gently squeezed Eggsy's wrist before laying it back by his side, underneath the blanket that covered him up to his shoulders.

"I'm hoping for a lot here, aren't I, my boy? Let's hope it's not too much", he murmured.

He took Merlin's glasses from out of their hiding spot in his lowest desk drawer. Suddenly someone knocked on the door, leaving James to hastily putting the glasses away in his coat pocket, instead of talking to Merlin first as he had planned.

Benjamin was back sooner than expected.

The knock on the OR door had James hurriedly covering Eggsy's face with the blanket. One can never be too cautious, here in this complex. He firmly closed the office door behind him as well, once he'd shimmied his way through.

He opened the door to Benjamin bemusedly carrying two breakfast plates and a thermos, an exhausted-looking and surprisingly fragile Harry standing behind him. He'd looked so strong yesterday, even when he'd been freshly tortured, but the loss of Eggsy seemed to have sunk in and taken all of it away.

Well, James decided, not for long. He thanked Benjamin and waved him off after taking over the two plates, asking Harry to come inside and close the door behind him.

"Sit", he said, "Eat. It'll be an emotional day, and I'd prefer if you've eaten and been checked before we start."

Harry ate slowly, reluctantly, perfunctorily. Even without any food for over two days- and James was kicking himself for not giving him dinner when he'd had him in the operation room yesterday- food was still a duty to him, not a joy. Grief diminished one's appetite, he knew. No more.

When breakfast was done and so was the check-up, James didn't know what to say. He looked down at his hands, which were playing with the spy glasses, searching for the best way to start this conversation. He didn't find it.

Instead, he started with what he _wanted_ to say, even though it perhaps wasn't the _best_ thing: an apology.

"Now I've got some news, that's very important. I'm _extremely_ sorry I didn't tell you before, but honestly you needed your sleep and you would have been in the way. You wouldn't have left the room if you'd known, and there's not much room to begin with. I also-", he sighed, "I also didn't want to give you false hope. I hope you'll forgive me for waiting."

He took a deep breath and snuck a peek at Harry. The man looked laden down still, but intrigued and slightly apprehensive.

"I already knew that the truth drug that Eggsy's interrogators gave him had interfered with the slow-working, painless poison _I_ gave him, and vice versa. The poison made it so Eggsy could resist giving everything away immediately, and the drug slowed down the poison. I witnessed this on security camera video tapes. But I discovered that there's- well, that the mix of drugs had a very . . . _unexpected_ side-effect."

Harry stilled and sat up straight; James was aware of it in his peripheral vision, as he continued to fiddle with the glasses.

"The poison I administered was supposed to lower the basic body functions - respiration, pulse, temperature, etc.- until a gentle death ensued. It was supposed to make it look as if Eggsy died of shock. Instead of doing that, however, the drug made it so that the poison's effects were…lessened, giving the appearance of death but not-"

James glanced up at Harry and the look on the other man's face shut him up quickly.

Harry's face had become eerily blank, after a fleeting moment of hope so profound and desperate it rocked James to the core.

"Doctor", the man said calmly, "Be careful with what you imply. What are you saying?" Tension racketed up the man's shoulders, clenched knuckles turning white.

A chill ran down the doctor's spine. He glanced at the scars around Harry's eye and thought of the many scars he'd seen on Harry's body when treating him. He looked down at the glasses of _a spy organisation_ in his hands.

They were proof that Harry was a lethal man.

James had been implying that Eggsy had survived. If he now had news that was anything other than that, it could mean his death. Giving Harry hope and then taking it away would be nothing short of cruel. A spy like Harry would not stand for cruelty.

Yes, Harry could probably control himself, but he was grieving, emotional and desperate. He could let his emotion get the best of him and _rip the doctor apart._ James did not know the man well enough to guess what he would do, he was well aware of that. He was infinitely glad, therefore, that he had good news.

"I'm saying, Harry", he said, "that Eggsy's al-".

James stopped talking. In his office, a small bottle had clattered to the floor.

Unbelieving, because Eggsy _should not be conscious yet_, James spoke without thinking: "Eggsy's _awake?!_". The doctor quickly jumped up to go to his patient.

As he squeezed through the door that was blocked by Eggsy's stretcher and threw a look at Harry, he saw that the news had startled the man badly.

He looked rather lost now, when he had looked so dangerous before. The spy had understood perfectly what James had been implying and had clearly wished it to be true, but the reality of it was still enough to take him by surprise for a moment.

The surprise passed quickly, though, and Harry launched himself at the office door. His wounds, recent malnourishment and exhaustion made the dash graceless, but desperation made him swift. He squeezed in through the door right behind James.

James was aware that he should keep an eye on Harry, but put Eggsy first for the moment. He laid the glasses on a shelf above the stretcher and took a moment to calm down before he looked over Eggsy.

James grabbed Eggsy's hand. His fingers were twitching, so were his toes. However- worryingly- nothing but Eggsy's extremities were moving. His breathing was irregular, and he blinked a lot. The boy was fighting his body's automatic reactions, as if struggling for control.

His eyes were clear, but scared and confused. He had been conscious for a while but paralysed, James reckoned, only just now able to open his eyes and move his fingers enough to dislodge the alarm-bottle. Waking up when you expected to be dead would be strange enough, but waking up unable to move must have been terrifying.

"Eggsy", he called softly and moved so Eggsy could see him without moving his head, "Eggsy. Can you hear me, my boy?".

The boy's eyes fixed on him. He blinked once, presumably a yes.

"Can you feel my hand?". Two blinks, no. "Can you move your hand?" Another no, this time, more insistently.

Never more than now did Eggsy look like James' own son, years ago: he was a scared child needing to be told that his nightmare wasn't real. My god, James thought, what hallucinations had he suffered from the drugs while under? And how much worse had the paralysation made it?

Pulling up a voice he hadn't used since his son grew up, he whispered and shushed nothings as he stroked the boy's sweat-soaked blond hair and squeezed his hand.

"I know you can't move just yet, but it'll be fine. A side effect that'll pass away quickly. You'll be squeezing my hand to bits in no time", he rambled. "Hush. You were asleep for a long time. Whatever it was that scared you, it was a _dream_. All a dream. You're awake now, the dream is gone. You can calm down now. We're all awake, and we're all real, and there are no nightmares here. Calm down, hush, that's it. Easy, Eggsy, easy."

He never looked away from Eggsy's terrified gaze and was pleased to see the tension in him soften to relief. The boy's breathing calmed down, and he started blinking slowly. Finally Eggsy's eyes closed, and James released his hand.

Slowly his voice trailed off as Eggsy slipped away into an exhausted sleep. Just as the doctor stopped talking, Eggsy grunted softly. James imagined it was a grunt of gratitude.

Harry had not moved since he laid eyes on Eggsy, but James heard him shift closer at the soft sound. Straightening up, he looked at Harry.

Harry was a mess. He was shaking, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. His eyes were red and puffy and his hair was sticking out on all sides- he had clearly run his fingers through them in consternation. His hands were held strangely; even though Harry had stepped closer, his hands were held up as if he was stepping back in fear.

"Harry?", James called. Harry looked at him, after a long moment of staring at Eggsy in doubt and fear.

"Is it real?", Harry asked fearfully, "Is he alive, is it real?".

James could hit himself. Harry had lived for two years believing that the boy in front of him was either a figment of his imagination, or someone from his past that he could no longer reach because he was an amnesiac. Then, in four days' time, he had been drugged, tortured and starved; immediately afterwards being informed that his dreams were real memories, but that the boy he loved was dead. And now suddenly, the kid's alive again. Of _course_ Harry would doubt if it was all real.

Why, just a minute or two ago, the man had threatened his doctor if he dared to give him false hope about Eggsy's fate. Harry needed reassurance as desperately as Eggsy had, possibly even more.

James promised that Eggsy was alive and well- asleep now, but probably awake again very soon. Why, with any luck the paralysing feature of the drug mixture would wear off before he's up. He'd be right as rain in no time, if his current rate of recovery was anything to go by, the doctor assured the trembling man. It all sounded very much like what James had just been telling Eggsy.

Harry stumbled backwards in relief until he hit the door. He breathed deeply, once, twice. Then, he pushed himself up again on shaky legs and stood up straight.

James went to him quickly, leading him to the office chair in which he'd slept that was standing right next to the stretcher.

As Harry sat down, he took Eggsy's hand and held it up for Harry to hold. Slowly, ready to jerk his hands back – a wounded animal's twitchy movements- Harry checked his pulse. Once he felt its strength, Harry relaxed and folded Eggsy's hand between his own.

Like the day before, Harry held his forehead to the back of Eggsy's hand and kissed it. "_Thank you_", he whispered joyfully, voice wet and shaky with happy tears.

"My pleasure.", James responded, as he gently grasped Harry's shoulder, "Absolutely my pleasure." He had not failed Eggsy, he thought gladly. On the contrary, he had given him Harry back, and he'd damn well made sure that Eggsy would be there to enjoy it.

At that moment, James noticed a light blinking on the spy glasses up on the shelf. Considering Harry was busy reassuring himself of Eggsy's status as living, James picked up.

"Merlin?"

"James, _finally_! I've been trying to contact you for a while. I remembered that Harry mentioned knowing the wife of your boss. This could get you all out of there and your boss in jail, 'cause we'll be able to figure out where you are. So go on and fetch Harry and ask him what he remembers, and we'll get this show on the road!"

James was scandalized. A moment like this was bigger than something that could be done any day, dammit, this was a _reunion_, a tragedy averted, someone _rising from the dead_! Why, Eggsy was Merlin's friend too, wasn't he? Shouldn't he let a moment as amazing as this _unfold_ for a minute, instead of dismissing it and jumping into action?

This thought stopped James' dramatic stewing. Merlin hadn't sounded dismissive.

"Merlin," he asked slowly, "are you aware of what's happened?"

"No", the Scotsman drawled suspiciously back, "I don't. _What_ has happened?"

James took a deep breath and looked down at Eggsy and Harry. It seemed to be perfect timing, as Eggsy took that moment to sigh in his sleep and move his head from side to side, just a little.

"Jesus _Christ_!", Merlin swore after a short moment of silent, "Jesus motherfucking Christ. Bloody buggering bumfuck, Eggsy, you fucking prick; I will personally send your ass to Siberia till you're bloody retired, holy _shit_."

A long string of curses followed, interspersed with hysterical, happy laughter. Some of it sounded slightly muffled. If James could take a guess, he would say that those were the moments where Merlin was dragging his hands across his face.

The occasional sob came out too, and when Merlin could finally speak again, he sounded as if he'd been crying.

"James? Is he okay?"

"He's definitely okay", the doctor said, "He's only just woken up the first time- a bit of a scary experience, but he's fine now- and the next time won't be far behind. He had a spot of trouble with his movement, but I'm confident that that will resolve itself soon enough."

"And Harry?"

"Harry's very happy, of course. Why would you even need to ask", James wondered, confused.

"No, lad, I mean: has he talked with Harry yet?"

"No, Eggsy hasn't even seen Harr- Oh", he realized, "Shit."

"Yes", Merlin admitted amusedly, "You could say that. Congratulations, doctor Thorne. You have now the dubious honour of explaining to Eggsy how exactly _he_ isn't dead, but then neither is the man that's been dead for two years and now holding his hand. Good luck."

Merlin signed off immediately afterwards. The prick abandoned me, James thought furiously, bloody Scottish _bastard_. He was gonna damn well pay for that. But in the meantime, the doctor sighed crankily, "How on earth am I gonna handle _this_?"

Firstly, he decided, he needed some sleep. Desperately.

* * *

**CHAPTER DUMP, THREE IN ONE, LONG LIVE THE SUMMER VACATION**

**(also don't mind the numbers of the chapters, that's a bit of confusion from posting this at different times on both and AO3)**


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